


Five Things Phil Coulson Did Not Expect in Washington D.C.

by MurphysScribe



Series: Phil Coulson is Just Resting (and taking a road trip) [3]
Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Bones (TV), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, NCIS, The Avengers (2012), The X-Files
Genre: #coulsonlives, But he's bored, Fix-It, Phil Coulson on a road trip, Phil Coulson's Cellist, phil coulson is not dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:30:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurphysScribe/pseuds/MurphysScribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson has been dead almost a year. He's moving slower than he used to, but he's healing. Fury has ordered Coulson to stay dead, and stay under the radar. And Phil Coulson doesn't question orders. Because, honestly, being sent on a paid vacation and road trip isn't all that bad.<br/>Especially when he meets interesting people.<br/>And done, with this part of the story, anyway. May backfill with more adventures and crossovers, or the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. Coulson Goes to Washington

Phil Coulson had been dead for eleven months, one week and two days, was walking without a cane for the most part, and was starting to cobble together workouts that were more like his old Agent regimen, and less like physical therapy. So that was good. 

He was keeping as much of an eye on the Avengers as he could from papers and media reports (decoding what they left out, from years of practice doing S.H.I.E.L.D. PR.) And realizing that he’d be commemorating his death-anniversary sometime soon. Weird.

He found himself heading toward Washington D.C. and didn’t question the impulse to play tourist in a town that was essentially a large, sprawling government agency. There were weirder ways to be homesick. But the city had a few surprises in store.


	2. Surprise #1: Having to Duck Out the Back of a Jazz Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil Coulson sees a familiar face he wasn't expecting. And has to take evasive action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think "Phil's Cellist" ever gets a name in the Avengers... so I faked one.  
> Also, a slight West Wing reference, after having realized Clark Gregg had a guest role on the show. I've never seen the show, so I didn't dare give anyone dialog.

His first night back in D.C, he checked into his hotel, and then headed for Adams Morgan in search of a good dinner. On the way back to his hotel from a very tasty Middle Eastern spot, sounds of a jazz piano drifted through the open door of a club. He headed in and found a seat at the bar, ordered a drink and sipped it, nodding along to the piano’s music and letting his mind wander. He was starting to relax. He had to grin at himself- it had almost taken a year, and a near death experience.

It was sheer, blind luck he was coming back from the men’s room at the back of the club when the pianist announced. “And now, I’ve got a special treat for you, all the way from Portland, Oregon. The talented cellist, and my very good friend, Carrie Bascombe. “

Phil Coulson pressed himself against the wall of the corridor leading back from the restrooms. _Carrie_? She was on the West coast! She was touring in Europe! He’d checked! She was--- not supposed to be here! He took a quick look, peering around the corridor, scanning the way the club was laid out. From here, he could still hear Carrie and the pianist. She sounded good, really good. Looked good, too. To get back to his seat at the bar, he’d have to walk right by her. And the stage lights might keep his face in shadow. And he’d changed, sure. And she wouldn’t be expecting him, so maybe he’d get lost in the crowd, out of her sight. And he hadn’t paid for his drink.

His gaze flicked back down the corridor, and he saw a door that opened onto the back of the club.

Maybe bolting wasn’t necessary, but he figured “staying off the radar, presumed dead” didn’t include “explaining to a former girlfriend-or-something that he hadn’t called in almost a year because of a near-death encounter with an angry god and the resultant agency conspiracy.”

He slipped out the door, and picked his way down the alley.

Then he headed back to his hotel.

Maybe he’d try the hotel bar- and a second attempt at a drink.

The radio was playing- still jazz, but nowhere near as good.

And he walked in and saw a handful of people sitting at the bar. Scanned them a little more alertly than he might have, the Carrie sighting had left him jangled. A tall woman with reddish hair, and a little glint of light on her companion’s balding head.

C.J. and Toby were still in D.C.??? He’d thought he was staying far enough away from the Hill. Forgodsakes.

They’d known him a lifetime ago. Two lifetimes ago, really. He’d been in deep cover, with yet another name, working with the F.B.I., just starting to be groomed for S.H.I.E.L.D.

Good grief.

He went upstairs to his room, raided the minibar, and flipped channels til he found an episode of _Supernanny._


	3. Surprise #2: A Lecture at the Jeffersonian Is Surprisingly Well Attended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil Coulson goes to the Jeffersonian for a lecture on Forensics. And makes friends.

The next day, Coulson told himself that his morning jog/walk/stumble wasn’t bad for a dead guy, and that he’d get back to 6 miles… eventually. Then he indulged an impulse to play tourist- he’d worked here, and been on missions in D.C., but never done things like gawk at the Lincoln Memorial or crane his neck at the monument. By the afternoon, he was at the Jeffersonian, where there was an interesting lecture on forensic imaging techniques. He was planning to take notes and see if there was anything he could report back to Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D. 

He rounded the corner to the Jeffersonian and saw that the line to get in stretched halfway down the block. Huh. As he shuffled into line, he saw why: the lecturer was also a mystery author. He vaguely remembered seeing those glossy hardcovers in Myka’s bookstore, and at the airport.

He shuffled along with the line and into a packed auditorium. He found a seat at the end of a row. Idly playing “scientist or mystery fan,” he stole glances at the people next to him. Goth girl: mystery fan. Guy in NCIS hat: law enforcement, possibly in forensics. NCIS, that rang a bell, Coulson vaguely remembered Sitwell going on a mission to try to recruit a NCIS agent who worked for Mossad. Next to them,was a youngish guy in glasses, and older man- uncle and nephew, scientists?

He got out his pen and notepad, eavesdropping to see if he was right.

“Turns out Timmy and Tempe have the same agent,” said the Goth girl. “So I read her new one last week! I wonder how her coworkers feel being novel characters?” Point in favor of mystery fan, Coulson thought.

“Beats being Pimmy Jalmer, kinky autopsy guy from… where, Indonesia? You could have named me… I dunno, Clark Kent?” said the nephew-looking curly-haired kid.

The guy in the NCIS hat cracked up. (They knew each other?) “Look, I said I was sorry- I honestly didn’t expect the first novel to be such a success.”

“When I was in training in Edinburgh, the mass spectrometer was seldom used in forensics. It’s humbling to be able to see this,” said the older man. Scientist, then.

“Humbling? Jealousy-inducing. I can’t believe Tempe and Angela get to work with this every day… I don’t think SecNav’s budget for the lab would cover… a third of this baby. I hope they show some of Ange’s simulations of doing composite identification from bone structure.” Huh. Goth girl was involved in forensics? Coulson was thoroughly confused.

He let his attention drift, continuing to play his game as he doodled idly. In front of him were lab techs, looking like they missed their white coats, and kind of twitchy. Across the aisle, a group of women in matching t-shirts: the Vienna ,VA mystery club.

He felt a tug on his arm. “Hm?”

Goth girl had leaned over to ask him a question. “So, I have to ask, are you a journalist?”

He smiled at her. “Law enforcement.”

“Aw man,” she said, and handed the man she’d called Timmy a dollar.

“Abs, you don’t have to, I didn’t take the bet,” said the man called Timmy.

Coulson smiled at them both. “And I could ask you the same thing: mystery fans or scientists?”

The lights flickered, then, and the presentation started.

Coulson took a few notes, mostly along the lines of “Tony has to see (or buy, or reinvent) this!” The level of imaging they could do with their machine was so detailed with 3-D images in midair, it looked like a video game. And a nonprofit that worked with the FBI had the budget for this? Kind of insane. The Goth girl was also taking notes, as was the NCIS guy sitting next to her.

“I didn’t answer your question!” said the Goth girl as the lights went back up, as if they hadn’t just seen beautiful and improbable science, and as if an hour hadn’t elapsed. “I’m Abby Sciuto- I work at the Navy Yard, in forensics.” She was talking fast and grinning and reminded Coulson of Darcy.

“So, not a mystery fan?”

She shook her head and her pigtails bounced. “Nope, big Angela fan though. Speaking of, excuse me…” she edged past him and darted towards a space left of the stage, where she hugged another dark-haired girl on the periphery of the front row.

“Um, sorry about that,” said Timmy in the NCIS hat. “That’s Abby. She’s had about five Caf-Pows today.  Six?” He confirmed the number with the young guy with curly hair and glasses. “Six. And that’s trouble! Tim McGee,” he extended a hand. “I’m with NCIS, and this is Duc… err, Dr. Donald Mallard, and this is Jimmy.”

Slightly bemused, Phil Coulson shook hands and introduced himself as Bill Rogers. The man who’d been talking about Edinburgh introduced himself as Donald, but his friends called him Ducky, and his assistant (the one Phil had thought was a nephew) as Jimmy Palmer.

Coulson took the opportunity to ask the others what they thought of the presentation (and from their expertise, fill in the gaps in what he’d understood of Temperance Brennan’s rather dry talk and demonstration of 3-D simulations outlining attack angles and weapon shapes.)  The group of NCIS folks caught up with Abby again, with Angela, and her bearded colleague, Hodgins, in tow, and a wide-eyed, earnest man named Sweets who was some kind of psychologist.  Feeling that he was the odd man out, Coulson made a move to leave, but Abby linked her arm through his. “Come have a milkshake with us,” she said. “Unless you have somewhere else to…”

Laughing he assured her “I have exactly nowhere else to be tonight, and I’d love a milkshake.”

As they walked in a loose pack to the diner, Coulson saw Timmy draw Abby aside. “could be anyone… don’t know … strays,” Coulson caught a few words as he admonished her.

“Relax, Timmy. He reminds me of Gibbs, and I can tell he’s lonely.”

Huh.

Which was how the former Agent Coulson wound up squished into a diner booth at a place called the Royal, with a bunch of forensic scientists all talking at once (and stealing his fries, but he wasn’t’ complaining) and then celebrating the anniversary of his death, two days later, by bowling with a Goth Girl and a league team of nuns. But that was another surprise, altogether.


	4. Phil Coulson Visits the Smithsonian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one takes place two days after the previous chapter, on the exact anniversary of Coulson's "death." 
> 
> Warning, moody Pheels ahead. (but see if you can spot the crossover!)
> 
> Believe it or not, I have A) a rationale for Fury keeping Coulson off the radar for an entire year, and B) an actual plan to tell the story of going bowling with nuns, not just allude to it. More to come...

Phil Coulson woke up at 6 AM without his alarm, then rolled over and buried his face in the vaguely tobacco and disinfectant smelling hotel room pillow. He hadn’t slept in his own bed… in almost a year. 364 days, to be exact. Because he was dead. Or in exile. Or something. He glared at his phone. To all appearances, it was the slightly scratched up older model iPhone Bill Rogers, semi-retired government flack carried. But it had all the capability of a sleek StarkPhone built in. Like him, it was incognito, waiting for Fury to call. Because Coulson was more than ready to be back to his team.

He took a deep breath and felt his chest seize in ways that had nothing to do with scar tissue or rebuilding lung capacity. Right. He would head to the hotel gym and do his routine, and he would go take pictures of the Lincoln Memorial and maybe go to the Smithsonian or even the Jeffersonian to say hi to his new friends, and he would explore exhibits and learn things and shake himself out of a brooding mood.  Yes.

He rode his determined mood through his workout, and even gave himself a pep talk in the mirror, straightening the collar of his plaid shirt as if there were a tie. That was another thing… no ties in over a year. That was just weird. Right. Time to enjoy the day playing tourist.

It was a nice enough day, so he grabbed a bagel from a deli he found on the way, planning to eat it in the sunshine. That was another thing he missed, proper New York bagels. But, stay out of New York, Fury had said. Stay incognito. Stay dead. And Phil Coulson didn’t question orders. And bagels from not-New York were all right, if they were toasted. And the coffee was at least good. Creature comforts. Gawking at national landmarks and taking pictures with his phone.

The Smithsonian had a banner advertising a special exhibit: “Captain America: Uniting the Nation.” Coulson gaped up at the banner. Really? And there was the shield. Steve’s shield, Captain America’s shield and… But the Smithsonian was huge, and going there had been his plan and. Coulson wandered through the other exhibits, ignoring the signs trumpeting the new, the special exhibit. Peering into glass cases, reading descriptions, getting educated about culture and history. He couldn’t decide what he thought, nostalgia? Anger? He fished his silent phone out of his pocket and glared at it.

And then… because Captain America had been Captain America to a young and awkward Phil Coulson who dreamed patriotic dreams snuggled under a blue and red bedspread, he felt himself pulled toward the exhibit. And it sort of helped- seeing the posters, yellowed with age, toys like action figures he’d prized. It was also comforting to imagine if Steve Rogers were wandering around here too, seeing relics from his life on display like this. If Coulson thought he felt unstuck in time…

Bits of conversation filtered toward Coulson.

“They had him the whole time, you know. Frozen in some government lab. Careful conspiracy, to bring him back during the alien invasion in New York. Which was also a carefully orchestrated conspiracy to forge an allegiance and get the bridge technology”

There were three other men in the exhibit besides Coulson- two grubby looking guys in t-shirts and glasses, and a guy with a beard and a suit. The grubby ones were having a muttered argument.

“Dude, I never thought I’d say this but, you sound way too much like Mulder right now. Not everything is government conspiracy or aliens.”

“No it’s true, there’s a super kind of hero serum stuff. I hac….”

“Shh!” said the suit man, nudging the shorter grubby one and flicking his eyes toward Coulson. “ Errr, happen to know! For a fact. I did research,” he finished primly.

Coulson kept his eyes glued to an exhibit card he’d read three times already. If this was a security breach, he’d have to call Fury. He used the reflections in the glass to study the three men. The grubby ones both had glasses, one had long, bleached blond hair and the other had vaguely troll-like features. The bearded one was herding the other two with an exaggerated air of patience Coulson distinctly remembered wearing around Tony Stark. Maybe the grubby ones already were assets and the suit was their handler.

Coulson decided to retreat, to see what they’d discuss if he wasn’t visible. He moved to another glass case, and felt a twisting in his chest at the sight of several Captain America trading cards, fanned out. He never did find out what had happened to the ones he’d wanted Steve to autograph. They’d been in his locker, waiting… and Fury had been weirdly evasive. That was when “why don’t you travel” became a conversation.

The blond man was explaining to the other two earnestly. “It’s true-  there’s been an organization for years- so secret, the Smoking Man doesn’t even know about it- They’re called SHIELD: SuperHero Intelligence, Extraction, Learning and Development. To harness alien and mutant technology and sell it to warlords.”

Coulson hadn’t realized his agent senses had kicked back in, until he felt himself relax. The hackers had most likely found the decoy accounts they’d set up, with an assist from Stark.  Still, their discussion of the serum was troubling, and he would be calling Fury later.

He decided he was done for the day, and left via the gift shop. They were selling Captain America trading cards, proceeds to go toward families of those wounded in the Battle of New York. Coulson bought a pack, opened one, and scoffed slightly. Man, these were ugly.

He circled back to the exhibit, to look at the proper cards again.

The three other men had left.

And, after days of surprises in D.C., something happened that he should have seen coming.

A few tears trickled down his face.


	5. Surprise #4 Phil Coulson Goes Bowling With Nuns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil Coulson goes bowling with nuns. And Abby from NCIS. 
> 
> I have lost track of how many surprises I had planned for Coulson. I cannot count to Five.  
> But I do have a plan.

Leaving the Smithsonian, Coulson felt his phone buzz in his hand. Hadn’t realized he was still holding it. He looked at it, a little hopeful, but saw the 202 area code- someone in the DC area, then.

“Hi Bill, this is Abby Sciuto- remember from two days ago- the lecture at the Jeffersonian and the diner and of course you remember, and hi!” said a voice so exuberantly cheerful (and probably drastically caffeinated) that he surprised himself by laughing.

“Hi Abby, nice to hear from you,” he said politely. “What’s going on?”

“I was wondering two things- one: are you free tonight? And two: how do you feel about bowling?”

Coulson laughed again, walking towards where he parked his car. “I don’t have any plans… and I don’t have any argument with bowling. “

“Okay, good! Where are you staying?”

“The Marriott on C Street”

“Okay, perfect! I’ll pick you up at your hotel at 7 tonight! My league team is short one, and you’re a lifesaver.”

“I didn’t say I was any good,” he tried to interrupt.

“Don’t worry! We have God on our side!” Abby said, and the line went dead with that cryptic remark.

He headed downstairs, and saw a hearse in the parking lot. It honked.

He peered in the window and Abby waved, her dark hair tied back into a ponytail with a pink chiffon scarf. “Get in!”

He had to stand and stare a moment or two longer, before he did get in shaking his head and laughing. “Sweet ride,” he said drily.

“Isn’t she a beauty? I’m just glad we didn’t catch a case tonight. It’s the league championships at the end of the month, and we need to get the practice in. Sister Laura isn’t back yet from the Diocese retreat and Sister Rosalita’s got her wrist in a brace, “ Abby chattered on, telling him about the nuns she bowled with and her other volunteer projects with the convent. It impressed him. And he was glad she was doing the talking.

They arrived at the lanes, and Abby introduced Sister Maureen, Sister Anne and Sister Stevie. “Short for Stephanie,” clarified the young nun with blue eyes.

Abby and the sisters unpacked their own balls and shoes, and got Coulson sorted with rental shoes and a decent ball. Before they bowled their first frame, they gathered in a circle, Coulson standing between two nuns who clasped his hands. “We offer this game to Jesus and St. Brunswick, and we do this, as we do all things for the glory of the Lord, Amen.” said Sister Anne.

“Saint Brunswick?”

“Patron saint of bowling,” Abby clarified.

“Ah,” said Coulson.

The evening began. Coulson was, mediocre at best. After his first few frames, he bought a pitcher of beer, to atone for bringing their scores down (and to fight the feeling that he should be on his knees saying Hail Marys as penance.) But the sisters and Abby were kind, even moderately encouraging when he improved incrementally.

He yelled and cheered when Sister Stevie bowled a strike then a spare, and howled in protest along with the sisters when Abby’s ball inexplicably hooked to the right gutter after heading down half the lane smooth in the middle.

At some point, Coulson realized he was really having fun, really relaxing. The nuns didn’t need him to be anything but Bill, Abby’s friend who didn’t mind spending an evening at a bowling lane, drinking bad beer, ordering pizza and helping them make a decent showing on league night.

Sister Maureen flopped into the plastic seat next to him, after her turn. “So I know you don’t bowl for a living, and I’m not going to pry, but how long have you known Abby?”

“Two days.”

All she did was turn a fraction of an inch and raise an eyebrow, and Coulson felt a chill. “Still not going to pry. But Abby’s pretty trusting. I need you to know that we’re very protective. And so’re her colleagues. They have guns though. Oh look! I’m up!”

And she reached past him to scoop up her ball and head to the lane, leaving Coulson bemused. He’d just been threatened by a nun. Who, honestly scared him more than some of the green and scaly creatures he’d encountered with SHIELD. He felt a laugh bubbling up. And he was lucky it wasn’t his turn. Because he was laughing too hard to stand up.

After the night ended (they didn’t win, but his teammates were very kind “You kept us from having to forfeit!”) Abby drove him back to the hotel.

They were stopped at an intersection when she abruptly switched off her music (sort of vague electronic noise music, but sort of soothing in a weird way.) She angled so she could see him and the road. “You have a MOAS.” She said.

“I’m sorry, a what?”

“MOAS. Mother of all secrets. The kind that you hold inside and can’t tell anyone, and it just eats you up, and there’s guilt and there’s the need to tell someone, that just pushes on you and you blab and the secret sets you free.” The light changed and she was driving.

He shot her a look but she was looking blandly ahead, bobbing her head to the music.

He took a deep breath, feeling the way the muscles had realigned around scars. “You’re absolutely correct.” He looked at her full on, but could only see her profile. “I was wounded in the Battle of New York. While working for an agency I know you’ve never heard of. Not the CIA or the FBI, trust me, a whole different set of acronyms.”

Abby laughed. “I get that. Every time I leave the Navy Yard I have to tell someone what NCIS stands for. So… your MOAS?”

“I was  at the Battle of New York. I fired a gun powered by alien technology. I was stabbed in the chest by a crazed alien from another dimension. And I died. Twice. No! Two and a half times. And I’ve been working my way back to being fit for the field. Except, my team still thinks I’m dead.”

He looked at her, his lips quirking up into a half smile. She was right. He did feel better, lighter having told her.

She snorted, and turned to stick her tongue out at him. “Oh fine, don’t tell me. I give you points for creativity though, and for using the Battle of New York. Timely! I saw the anniversary footage on the news this morning, with all the Avengers, and lots of speeches about,” she intoned “our new reality. She wrinkled her nose. “Not that we’d ever get to, I don’t know, meet an alien. Or take samples and run them through a mass spec, say if we wanted to do something like that.”

He gave her a wry grin. “Yeah. It’s our new reality, all right.”

They had gotten back to his hotel as they talked, he hadn’t noticed they’d been sitting in the parking lot.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ll tell you this much. I was in New York, a year ago… and some of what happened. It really got to me. I really, really needed a night like this.”

She got out of the car as he did, and pounced on him in a warm hug. “I’m really glad, Bill!”

He headed back up to his hotel room, and started getting ready for bed, taking things out of his pockets, folding his clothes back into his suitcase. He missed New York. It had been a year. Fury hadn’t called him since he got to D.C..

He was tired of following orders.

It was time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For NCIS reference: Season 4, "Suspicion"  
> Abby defines a MOAS, as the Mother of All Secrets. I pulled the quote from here:  
> http://neverupstaged.wordpress.com/2011/06/10/dirtylittlesecrets/


	6. Surprise #5: Nightmares and New Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another bad dream, but this time, Coulson has friends to lean on in his exile.

_  
_Coulson heads back to his hotel room, walking almost jauntily, smiling. It's time to go back, Fury and his silent schemes be damned, yes, damned. Coulson is done with following orders. He's just been bowling with nuns, told his Mother of All Secrets to a Goth girl who didn't believe him.

And he's been dead for so long he's probably used up at least half of his accumulated vacation time. He doesn't remember what form J-452-B stands for. Or form Alpha-316, though he remembers he needs to file four copies of it. He's been away too long. He wants a proper everything bagel, to eat souvlaki in Astoria, and to hear a New York accent that isn't on a television screen. He wants to ride the subway. And see his team. (Though he'll have to plan that last somewhat carefully, suddenly arriving after a year of being dead might have... unforeseen reactions, and with a god and a rage monster, it's best to tread carefully.)

He catches himself whistling as he packs. He doesn't know much of "New York, New York" beyond the chorus.

_You like this?...Team scattered... that's what this thing does...you lack conviction... brothers... cold... can see his breath... your team is scattered... scream! hurtshurtshurts....frozen.... so cold... falling...don't even know what this does.... pull the trigger. keep the team together... all alone...bolt of ice through the heart.... Buried in ice... can't breathe...drowning...move away please... away.... cold...stay with me, soldier.... frozen... falling... disappearing..._

_  
_Coulson wrenches awake, teeth chattering, muscles contorted in the familar nightmare tremors, shuddering as he tries to calm down. After a few of these awful dreams over the past months, he knows the routine, uncoil himself from bed, crank heater, pile on the blankets. No hot chocolate in this room, though. And no answer from room service. Damn. He huddles under his blankets, feeling so chilled he wonders why he can't see his breath. Checks his phone. 5 AM and no calls. Coffee will have to do, he doubts he'll be sleeping again.

Shakily, he eases himself from bed, gets his book, and a pair of warm socks, makes coffee, and unfolds his cane within easy reach for later. Thinking about the details, so he doesn't think about the nightmare. Tucks himself back into bed, and has to read the same paragraph three or four times before he catches its meaning. His scars hurt and his feet feel like ice.

He reads until he knows the hotel gym is open, then makes his creaky way downstairs, to work on getting himself limber enough to forego the cane. It's definitely an ugly workout. From there, into a scalding hot shower (laughing at himself a little, it's practically summer, and D.C. humidity will saturate him the second he gets outside, maybe then he'll be warm). By the time he's had breakfast and a second cup of coffee, he's thinking that being in the car doesn't sound like torture.

His phone bleats out some kind of electronic noise-music, and he looks down at it in surprise. Abby's name and picture show up on his phone- she customized her ringtone at some point last night, when she borrowed his phone because hers was out of reception. Crafty!

"Hi Abby," he says, with a question in his voice.

"You're staying in town today, right?" she says, then continues without waiting for him to respond. "Good. Because I have a great idea. Put on something grubby, and then come with me to Habitat for Humanity- we're just outside of Vienna today, I'll pick you up in 45. I've got Timmy with me, and Tempe and Ange from the Jeffersonian. It'll be great. And then tonight if you haven't had enough sawdust, I want you to meet my boss and his boat."

Laughing at her exuberance, Coulson tells her "Not sure about the house building- I'm in rough shape after a strenuous night of bowling with nuns, you know."

"Come anyway. There'll be stuff or you to do. Plus, war hero- you were at the Battle of New York, nobody will mind if you don't jump in for the heavy lifting. See you at 11:30."

"See you then," he laughed. She was a force of nature. Coulson had to wonder if there wasn't some kind of mutant edge behind her persuasive power. Okay, so not heading home today. Changing to a more faded pair of jeans, and a relatively older shirt. Spending the day with sawdust and sunshine didn't sound all that bad.

He climbed into the shotgun seat in the hearse, next to the woman in pigtails. "So what's this about your boss and a boat?"

"You need to meet Gibbs. Sawdust therapy for your MOAS- I already checked your security clearance- so there's no way Gibbs can argue."

Coulson wondered when Fury was going to call, irate that his cover identity had gotten a ping from NCIS.  "Mind if I switch the music," he asked, carefully, because the electronica sounded entirely too much like the noises Chitauri ships made.

"Go for it, I'm curious what you like," she said, with a sideways grin. He twirled the dial til he found some zydeco. "Hey, nice," she said, and told him stories about New Orleans as they drove to help build houses.

A dead man and a Goth girl driving in a hearse to build houses. He wondered where the road would take him next.


	7. Painting Houses: A Giant Crossover-Fest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil Coulson paints a house with Abby. Abby is a force of nature who knows everyone.  
> Absolutely everyone.
> 
> And I freely acknowledge that I am a jerk. Yep. A total sadist.

From the outside, the house they'd be working on looked almost complete, the color of new wood pale in the sunlight. "We're done with the main construction," Abby told him. "Mostly working on the upstairs, painting and tiles." He surveyed the scene as he walked toward the house, impressed with both the quality of the work, and the combination of camaraderie and intense focus the group working shared. "Tim and I are helping with the wiring."  
"I'm happy to jump in wherever you need me."  
"Hey Bill!" Angela from the Jeffersonian called out. Her hair was up in a messy bun, and she wore a sweatshirt and jeans liberally spattered with paint. "How are you with heights and ladders?"  
He walked over to her, and was surprised by a friendly hug hello from a woman he'd only met earlier that week. "Heights? I'm reasonably all right- not as good as some," Clint, he thought.

  
She held up a paint can and a giant roller. "What do you think of the color?" A nice sort of slate gray. "And red for the trim."  
"Nice. I think, as long as I get more on the house than myself, we're in business," he told her, and she laughed.  
She introduced him to the people they'd be working with. Dana, red haired and petite, who handed him a tube of sunblock when they got started, her husband Mulder, (who just went by his last name.) McGee came by to say hi, carrying an armload of cable wiring. They got to work- using long rollers to cover the outside of the first floor. The sun was warm on his back. He balanced the ladder when Angela went up to start working on the red trim. The rest of the team was seamlessly friendly- Jimmy from NCIS, Jack from the Jeffersonian, who emerged from the house to make a sandwich run in the afternoon. After the sandwiches, Abby emerged and pulled him inside to work with her laying tile on the bathroom walls, precise and exacting work he really enjoyed. (How had she known he would?) It was very zen, kneeling in the bathtub and lining tiles up in neat rows.  
Abby's phone buzzed, she checked it, squealed in delight, then leaned over him to look out the window (almost knocking heads with him) "Doc's here!" she grabbed his hand "He's one of my favorite people ever, and you've got to meet him." Bemused, but given no choice, Phil followed her exuberance outside, blinking a little as the sun dazzled his eyes. She broke away from him and barreled into the man getting out of his car. Phil saw dark hair, flashes of a purple shirt, as the man caught her.

  
Abby tugged her friend over. "New friend, Bill Rogers," she said "Meet old friend- Dr. Bruce Banner- I did an internship with his lab in Baton Rouge in college."   
Somehow, Phil Coulson stayed on his feet. Somehow he extended a hand in greeting, wore a pleasant smile, said "Bill Rogers, pleased to meet you."  
And waited for his worlds to collide.  
Bruce Banner grasped his hand, shook, let it go. "Good to meet you, Bill," he said evenly. Then his head tilted to one side, then the other. He ducked down with an abashed grin. "Sorry- you look...you look like"  
Phil wasn't sure whether to bolt or grin or finish Banner's sentence or... he didn't even know. Dizzily, he expected his phone to ring, Fury to live up to his name. He wasn't sure how this was going to play out. He would follow Banner's lead. Because the man had more secrets than he did- and more reason to keep them and... how was he, how were either of them, staying so calm?

  
Banner thrust his hand into his hair in a familiar sheepish gesture. "Sorry, I'm being an idiot- you just look like someone... I used to know."  
"Maybe you do know each other?" Abby, Phil had forgotten about her, supplied. "Doc was in New York around the same time you were, last summer, Bill," she said, emphasizing the words in a way that telegraphed how much she wanted to say Battle of New York in capital letters, but didn't want to traumatize either of them.  
"That must be it," Bruce said, looking relieved that the gap in his memory had filled itself. He shot Abby a grin. "Where do you need me?"

  
And that was it.  
Phil sat down in the grass, stunned.


	8. The Big REVEAL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it's the big reveal! Thanks to all for your comments.

Phil stood up dazedly and headed back into the house. He saw that Bruce was in the kitchen with some of the others. He went back upstairs to the bathroom and got back to laying down his neat rows of tiles. Angela came in with a handful of new tiles. "Think you can find a place for some of these?" she asked. Each was hand-painted with designs of tropical fish, with big swirling tails.

  
"These are outstanding!" he told her, studying the available space to find places of honor. Laying down tiles quieted his mind, so he could think logically about what to do next. Bruce was here. Fury hadn't called, maybe, though Phil found it hard to believe, hadn't anticipated something like this. Rows of tiles, one by one, working in solitude as his new friends' voices filtered in, along with construction noises and a radio someone was playing outside.

  
Footsteps in the hall. "Are you ready for the medicine cabinet? Oh-" Of course it was Bruce, and Phil straightened to stand in the bathtub.   
"Hello, Dr. Banner, let me give you a hand with that," setting aside the stack of tiles for the tub, making sure the caulk tube was covered. With Coulson for balance, Bruce set the medicine cabinet down, went back into the hall to get his tools. Coulson looked at the space above the sink, concentrating on figuring out a good level for the medicine cabinet mirror. "Here, you think?" he pointed, when Banner came back. "Want another set of hands?" There wasn't a reply. Phil turned.  
Banner had his glasses on, and was staring, slack-jawed. "It is you. Agent Coulson...But Fury said..." he said as though the wind had been knocked out of him. Or was about to be.

  
Phil's legs went nerveless again, and he sat right down on the edge of the tub. He could feel himself grinning though, staring up at the other man. His mind working, trying to stay careful steps ahead of a confined space, a revelation, possibly big green destructive rage. Of all people, and all places...  
"I need you to stay calm, first of all, Bruce," he said,with as much authority as he could muster, sitting on the edge of a bathtub under construction. He levered himself up, using the sink for support. "Can you do that? Can you stay calm? Can you stay _here_?"

  
Banner raked a hand through his hair, still looking poleaxed but not, mercifully, any shade of green. He nodded dumbly, still staring. "Very good," said Phil, no, Agent Coulson. "Shall we go outside?"

  
They did, moving away from the others. "What does Abby know about the Other Guy?" Agent Coulson asked, using the change of subject to give Bruce time to process, as well as to remind him what was at stake.   
"She doesn't."  
Coulson nodded once. "Let's keep it that way, shall we? How are you?" They were in the backyard of the house, with a box for a swing set- which gave them some cover, and something to start doing, if anyone else came by.   
"I'm... in better control of The Other Guy than I was.. during... when the... when you... Fury said you were dead!" he exclaimed.   
"In his defense," Agent Coulson said mildly "I was. At least three times through the month after the battle of New York. It took me a while to recover. And Fury... ah, thought it best that the story not be changed."

  
"But... then, why didn't you come back? You survived... and then you just left the team?"   
Agent Coulson stared at the box for the swing set, focusing on that instead of the emotion creeping into Banner's voice. If Banner felt that way... what would Natasha and Clint... He took a deep breath. Banner didn't need to know that Coulson's homecoming plans now definitely included punching his boss in the other eye.  
"I was following the Director's orders," he said, somewhat acidly. "Long past the point where they made any sense. And I want, first of all, to apologize for giving you any idea that I'd deserted the Avengers."

His phone buzzed. "Took you long enough," he said to Fury, with feeling.


End file.
